


The Calloused Hearts of Men

by LogicIsGod327



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: (gross), Alternate Universe - Civil War, Alternate Universe - Espionage, Bernie Sanders - Freeform, Dick Cheney - Freeform, Featuring special guest stars, Hillary Clinton - Freeform, Kirsten Gillibrand - Freeform, Lol what's the Geneva Convention, M/M, Politics, Second American Civil War, So Much Politics, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-22
Updated: 2017-09-08
Packaged: 2018-07-26 02:33:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7556695
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LogicIsGod327/pseuds/LogicIsGod327
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles was eleven when the war started. Hell, he couldn’t even really remember a normal life before it. He remembered waking up one morning to his mother crying on his father’s shoulder as pictures of the White House burning and the Vice President being killed on the South Lawn played on repeat on CNN. It all went downhill so fast from there.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Calloused Hearts of Men

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this a while back, the idea existed long before that, as well. Violence, warfare, and politics. It's not pretty, but enjoy! Please not, I do not endorse violent revolutions unless necessary, and all political change must come from the voting booth. As we enter the Democratic National Convention, please, please, give all your support to Hillary Clinton. It's that, or Donald Trump.

_**How long will it take the calloused hearts of men before the scars of hatred and cruelty shall be** **removed? -** _ **Clarence Darrow**

**+**

Stiles was eleven when the war started. Hell, he couldn’t even really remember a normal life before it. He remembered waking up one morning to his mother crying on his father’s shoulder as pictures of the White House burning and the Vice President being killed on the South Lawn played on repeat on CNN. It all went downhill so fast from there.

It only took days for the sixteen states of the Northeast to break away, lead by the surviving congressional Democrats and the Democratic nominee for that election, Hillary Clinton. No one knew where Donald Trump went, though the general consensus was that he was dead. Some old man sat in a seat in the Pentagon, introduced himself as Dick Cheney, former Vice President of the United States of America, and declared himself interim president.

Maybe a week after the Manhattan Declaration broke up the Union into the United States and the Republic of America, fighting broke out. In a sprint northward, the Army was about ready to wipe out New York City and clamp down on the revolution before it could ever spread. At the last possible second, aid from China and, shockingly enough, Florida, was enough to turn the tide. The Sheriff just sighed and said he was grateful it wasn’t happening in the west. He figured the war would sort itself out soon enough, a peace would reached and they’d all resume their lives. Then Washington DC fell.

The surprise invasion by the Republic into DC caught the US Army off guard, and they were expelled before any sort of real defense could be made. That was when everything changed. President Cheney moved the capital to San Francisco, and life changed forever. As they lost centers of industry, pushed back and back further to the west, the US had to give up a great deal. The last stronghold in the Republic, Charleston, South Carolina, fell without a shot. After that, the United Nations stepped in and said _‘Enough is enough!’_. The Republic got the eastern half of the Mississippi, along with the newly formed state of Orleans, broken off from Louisiana. The US got the rest.

There was a good two years of peace, a mass exodus of liberals moved into the booming Republic, and disenchanted patriots fled westward toward the windswept steppes of the Great Plains, hoping to rekindle a national identity on the faceless plains. At the same time the two countries were trying to fix themselves back up after a long, messy war, Claudia Stilinski got sick. The brain tumor, once upon a time, would have been treatable. But the only centers capable of treating hers were back east, and by the time the travel approval had been granted, it was too late. Stiles held her hand as she perished, mindless and insane. Only a day later, the papers to go to the Republic were in their mailbox, the stamp of the Office of Interstate Travel blazoned proudly on the envelope.

That was the day that Stiles started to hate his country. That was the day he met Derek Hale. Derek’s family, the whole lot of them, were part of an advanced network of spies that stretched as high as the halls of the Capitol Building in San Francisco. Even his younger sister, Cora, who was only eleven, ferried messages on her bike, hidden in coded letters that were baked _underneath_ pies to Mrs. DeLano at the church, who in turn transmitted them to a currier in St. Louis, and from there into the Republic.

Stiles himself started acting as a spy, and his father, too wrapped in his job as Sheriff, forced to carry out savage new laws, and his grief at losing his wife, didn’t notice. Stiles remembers the day the first Mandatory National Address happened at school. Their SmartBoards immediately switched to an official government feed, complete with the seal of the Department of State, and Secretary of State Ted Cruz stepped up to the podium. The peace talks were over, the rest of the world strong armed the United States into releasing the Republic, and the government was not happy.

 _‘My fellow Americans,’_ He began. _‘Today, a peace treaty was signed and ratified by the rebellious states and the Union. The international community has offered recognition to these rebellious members of our unbreakable Union, allowing them to claim the title of the Republic of America.’ The nation’s name came with unmistakable disgust. ‘We will not now, nor ever, recognize these traitorous provinces as being separate from these United States. We instead see them as under the occupation of an enemy, and we shall, I promise you today, liberate our brothers and sisters across the Mississippi. Hillary Clinton, Bernie Sanders, and all the other traitors will be brought to justice, so help me God!’_

The speech went on and on, a near hour of repudiation of the Republic, of the peace treaty, and of pretty much the entire world. The US was withdrawing from the United Nations, and sealing its borders with Canada and Mexico, while the Republic was already in talks with Canada about a common currency, and had successfully supplanted the United States’ position as the head of the UN Security Council. Stiles smiled wide every time he thought of the information he’d brought to the Republic, and he eventually started spending time with Derek, Laura and Cora outside of their treasonous pastime.

Somewhere along the line, he fell in love with Derek. Stiles learned the truth, about how they were werewolves, and he dealt with it just fine. He’d sometimes allow Scott to tag along, the three teenager boys playing video games, discussing the latest series of restrictions placed on civil liberties, and wishing they could move to the Republic, maybe even join the Army and defend it from the coming second war. 

Talia Hale wasn’t a stupid woman, she knew exactly what was going to happen. Anyone with a political motivation and access to Google knew what was going to happen. The peace was going to fail, and the war would pick back up. The only question was how long. She resolved she would protect her family at all costs, until the bitter end, and she knew it wouldn’t be long before she had to.

On 27 April, 2019, the United States eastern border patrol fired on a Republic squadron, killing three members of the squad. In the return fire, an additional five US soldier died. It took an hour for President Cheney and President Clinton to charge unto the airwaves and declare the Treaty of Geneva over, and to begin an invasion of the Republic. Within a day, there was a full-scale war going again. Stiles was fifteen.

At first, the US seemed to have the upper hand, cutting deep into the Tennessee river valley and getting within fifty miles of Chicago. The Republic braced for another crippling war, and Stiles and the Hales prepared, along with the other spies in enemy territory, to flee north to Canada. Thankfully, at the last possible second, the war turned at the Battle of St. Louis. Derek and Stiles had been together, engaged in a rather heavy make out session, when the TV, playing some kids show or other, switched to an emergency feed on the national news, showing the unthinkable.

A five hundred foot Republic banner, vertical orientation, was being lowered from the broken and burned Gateway Arch. The banner had holes in it, was scorched around the edges, but the three interlocked rings supported by olive branches were plain as day. The view was shot from the western side of the Mississippi, and in the sky, thousands of arrowhead-shaped Republic F-50 fighter jets headed west. St. Louis had fallen.

That night, back in Beacon Hills, Stiles and the Hales, as well as several other spies in town, met for a celebratory barbeque. The US was backpedaling, withdrawing from the Republic to try and stem the flow of invaders, but too late. What began as a small hole in the defensive line became a gaping wound, allowing the Republic to storm across the Mississippi River and wreak havoc on the ill-defended area beyond.

From there, it was battle after battle, push after push. And then, in the middle of nowhere Nebraska, the unthinkable.

Twenty miles east of Miller, Nebraska, was a massive prison complex. Twenty thousand barracks housed a total of 1.4 million people, and numerous torture centers, sterile, white rooms filled with the remnants of human horror, dotted the camp. America’s Auschwitz, they called it. The conditions in the camp were vile, so much so that, in the surrounding miles around Camp Miller, the scent of human refuse hung in the air.

Joshua Mako, Republic Minister of Diplomacy, was famous for being shot on national television. He’d been on the streets of Manhattan when the United States had invaded, and had approached a group of soldiers with his hands raised, repeating that he surrendered. Upon seeing the tee shirt with the Republic logo on it, several of the soldiers cried out _‘Traitor!_ ’, and one put three bullets in his stomach.

Two months prior, Minister Mako had been captured, and he’d been held and tortured at Camp Miller. He emerged, an emaciated skeleton, leaning against another rail-thin prisoner, a woman whose left eye was milky white, blinded from trauma, and whose head was shaved to peach fuzz.

The images from Camp Miller were broadcast uncensored all over the world. The Republic had long ago hacked into American transmissions, and had airwave dominance, using it to send a never ending stream of propaganda, along with video footage of every Army retreat, every welcome liberation, and even every defeat they suffered.

All the while, Stiles worked more frantically to pass information along. More than once, he was very nearly caught, even by his own father. Thankfully, nearly everyone in town knew he had ADHD, which allowed him to blame his odd, jerky behavior on the shortages of Adderall. On the nights he wasn’t sneaking across county lines to give the latest batch on intelligence, Stiles was with Derek. By that point, school had been cancelled, and a lot of people were heading towards the front lines, hoping to find a spot to cross into safe territory.

Derek’s own family considered making a run when Republic troops hit the ground running in Colorado, but decided against it. Their house, high in the hills surrounding the actual town, combined with an affiliation to the coming government, gave them a better position than most. Perhaps the deciding factor was Stiles, who wouldn’t leave his father, nor would Derek leave him. It all changed after Operation Landslide.

Intel that the Hales and Stiles had given, received and passed on was used in a critical plan for Republic victory. Operation Landslide was a surprise attack, hundreds of miles behind the front lines, deep in secure American territory. Over a thousand Republic troops were smuggled in from the north, and they charged into Colorado Springs, the home of NORAD headquarters in the Cheyenne Mountain complex.

The mountain fell in an hour. From there, the troops were able to go into lockdown mode, and sealed themselves into the control center of the American missile arsenal. With access to the computers, the nuclear football, the control box from which the President could launch the nuclear arsenal, and the same system that had terrified the Republic, became null and void. The only missile systems were locked in a mountain, under enemy control.

Fighting came to a standstill.

Hillary Clinton charged the airwaves with a promise.

_‘We would never use nuclear weapons upon you or any other adversary,’ She began. ‘But there are still many thousands of non-nuclear intermediate and medium range missiles to launch from our fortress in Colorado Springs. I issue this call, as already so many other nations and organizations have. President Cheney, I implore you, end this war. Every day we draw closer to San Francisco. Every day we draw closer to the end of this war. We will handle you and all those below you with mercy, but you must surrender. You have until midnight to drop your weapons and surrender. If not, the consequences rest on you alone.’_

Midnight came, and no surrender. Stiles, terrified of a missile strike, insisted that he stay with the Hales until whatever happened, happened. And boy did it happen.

Intermediate and medium-range ballistic missiles could cross continents in a matter of minutes, let alone a few hundred miles to the front lines. The pervading thought was that Hillary Clinton was going to level every major city not under her control, but she was cleverer than that. Anyone could see that, even among the most loyal Americans, there was a growing tide of displeasure with the government in San Francisco. Why would she murder millions and turn the survivors, as well as likely her own people, against her? No, that wouldn’t do. So, she did something downright ingenious.

There were dozens of military bases filled with air support for the front lines, as well as the majority of the troops for the United States, and with a maximum travel time of three minutes from their silos to their targets, missiles were perfect for breaking the back of the American war machine. There was no way to scramble the jets, evacuate the tanks and the troops, no chance in Hell. The missiles flew at 0157hrs PST, and the last ones made contact at 0201hrs. In four minutes, nearly half of the American military, as well as 80 percent of its aircraft and military vehicles were wiped out.

The exception was Dallas. The southern front had stalled out trying to lay siege to the cultural and economic heart of Texas, to finally convince the state to surrender, as every state around it had. Finally, desperate, six intermediate range ballistic missiles were launched on the city following orders to end the siege. Due to the limited payloads of the smaller missiles, multiple explosives were required to effectively destroy the city. It also sent a clear message: the war was going to end soon, or more of this would happen. Operation Archangel was a roaring success. Washington, Idaho and Oregon ratified the Republic Constitution.

The next day, Stiles and Derek had their first real argument.

“She set a dangerous precedent! Is it okay suddenly to fire missiles on the enemy as long as you’re not nuking them?!” Derek burst out.

“Of course not! These are special circumstances! We’re stalled out in the Rockies, we can’t afford to stop now! If we do, it’ll just end like it did before! Do you really want another two or three years of this bullshit?!” Stiles demanded. “I can’t speak freely in public, let alone in private! My father is the _Sheriff!_ If he found out what I’ve been doing he’d had no choice but to turn me over! I really don’t want to get shipped off to the camps in Alaska, do you Derek? You saw what they did in Nebraska, do you wanna live that out?! Anything short of nuclear war that will end this, I will approve of. I just want this to be over. It’s been five years, and I want it over, more than anything.” The last sentence came as a whisper.

Derek gathered the slighter teen in his arms. “I know you do, but this? Isn’t the way to do it. The international community is pretty pissed, and God knows there’ll be some form of retaliation for it.”

Derek was right. Hillary Clinton, Bernie Sanders and countless other Republic officials had made the trip to Baltimore, Maryland to honor the sixth anniversary of the Baltimore Uprising, seen as a key precursor event to the Republic secession, as since then Black Lives Matter had been deeply entwined with the Republic’s social justice initiatives. However, a flight delay prevented them from landing at BWI airport in time for the planned ceremony. And thank Christ their flight was delayed.

A nuclear bomb exploded in downtown Baltimore.

The last allies the United States had in their civil war evaporated like a snowball in Hell. Even Britain, which had been pouring material support into the US balked and ran, instead offering the Republic a mere pittance of a few million dollars and survivor’s aide.

Fury reigned supreme in Derek’s head. The fact that, even with over thirteen thousand nuclear weapons at their disposal, the Republic had never _dared_  use them, and then the United States smuggled one into the city that their entire government was about to enter galled him to no end. It galled him so much he decided to take action.

In Beacon Hills, there was an army weapons depot, and it was seldom defended. Every man was needed on the front lines, and the draft had been instated. Thankfully, Stiles’ father was exempted from it for prior military service. So, the weapons depot sat, on the edge of town, with no one guarding it.

Derek took action. Alone, under the dark cover of a May new moon, he threw a single Molotov cocktail through the one of the armory windows, and watched with satisfaction as the entire structure went up in flames. Across what remained of the United States, similar action was taken. Riots happened in major cities, and the entire world braced for the brutal end as the Republic, having finally taken Carson City, Nevada, invaded California.

Stiles and Derek were together 24/7 now that school had been cancelled. The Hales stopped ferrying intelligence, there was no point anymore, and the Sheriff urged everyone to evacuate the town for the coast, hoping that being far from the action would keep as many safe as possible.

The first night of the full moon, as the Hales ran through the woods of the Preserve, even Stiles’ ears picked up the sound of distant explosions to the east. Stiles, in response, started sleeping with a Republic-issue handgun beneath his pillow. John Stilinski was actually relieved that his son was deep in the forest, far from the town. Each day, the clashing armies inched closer to the city, and each day, more people left. A few long time residents of the town, as well as those with nowhere to go or a sense of duty to stay, did so, but almost the entire town was gone. There were approved zones of evacuation, where there was no fighting and it was safe for civilians to cross, and thousands were taking advantage of them.

It was a crisp morning in the third week of May, 2021 that the Battle of Beacon Hills happened. Although not strategically important to the war, it was a significant event in that it marked the beginning of a United States army tactic known as Operation Nero, so named for the proposed action by Adolf Hitler at the end of World War II.

“Stiles!” Derek shook his boyfriend awake. “Wake up! The fighting’s in town!”

“What…?” The other teen groaned.

“Get up!” And Derek promptly pushed him off of the bed.

“What the fuck was that for?!” Stiles demanded.

“They’re fighting in town.” Came the sober reply.

“Shit! Already?! They weren’t supposed to be here for a few days! Hand me my pistol, have you got yours?”

Derek patted his hip. “Get dressed, come on. We’re going to watch from the bluff.”

Dressed and ready to go, Stiles was not the least bit surprised that Derek just picked him up and carried him bridal style, closing up the rear behind the rest of his pack.

“Damn werewolves.” He muttered, blushing.

“I’m sorry, would you rather run two miles?”

“Maybe!”

“Liar.” Derek said, smug.

The Hales reached the bluff a few moments ahead of Derek and Stiles, and were standing stock still at the sight that confronted them.

Even with weak human eyes, Stiles could see the battle lines. To the right, an enormous Republic banner flew at the high school, and the American flag over the town hall. In the middle of town, the battle itself. F-16’s and Republic Aethersprites engaged in aerial battles that could only be called graceful, and artillery fire flew between the two sides. It was the most beautiful, horrific coordinated chaos any of them had ever seen. And then it went to Hell. The American F-16’s suddenly pulled out of their dogfights, and troops started pulling back. There was a moment of confusion, before terrible clarity. Operation Nero was a go.

A low-flying squadron of B-25 bombers flew over the city, and let loose a deadly payload. They ripped across the town, levelling most of Beacon Hills. Republic artillery took down three of the five planes, but were themselves destroyed by the remaining two. Satisfied with their destruction, the surviving aircraft flew back north. Across California, the same thing happened. Every contested territory was leveled, and all the troops were pulled back to defend the San Francisco Bay, which had been under siege for a day.

By now, the Hales were standing, shell-shocked. Stiles had fallen to his knees, tears streaming down his face.

“Stiles…” Derek reached to place a hand on his shoulder.

“We have to help. Those are our friends, we have to help them!” Laura cried out.

“She’s right.” Evan spoke from the edge of the cliff, still staring at the ruined mess that was his town.

They piled into a number of vehicles, and drove far beyond the legal limits into town. The edges were battle-damaged, filled with burnt vehicles and dead soldiers, but still standing, none the less. The closer to downtown they got, the more buildings were levelled. To Stiles’ astonishment, an entire wing of Beacon Hills Memorial Hospital was demolished, while the other stood nearly untouched. People rushed in and out of the building, ferrying the wounded. He almost leapt out of his Jeep trying to get inside.

A triage center had been set up in the lobby, and Stiles saw people he knew. Too many. Mrs. DeLano, another one of the spies in town, had glass embedded up and down her arm. Isaac Lahey was impaled by rebar, running through his right lung and out his back. Eventually he found Scott, who was wearing a pair of scrubs dirtied by debris, and quickly hugged him, ascertaining that Melissa was alright, but there was no word on the Sheriff. Only a few seconds later, the patient Scott was working on convulsed and died. Looking at the burned corpse, Stiles realized with a start it was Harris, his chemistry teacher. On his way out, Stiles passed Vernon Boyd clutching a broken arm, all while aiding Erica Reyes, who limped on a broken ankle. _‘This is the cost of war.’_ He thought to himself.

Derek was waiting in the Jeep, and the rest of the Hales had departed to aid in search and rescue.

“Well?” There was a note of anxiety in his voice.

“Scott and Melissa are okay. I just- just watched my chemistry teacher die. Harris is dead, Der.”

“It’s war, Stiles. A lot of people are.”

“I know.”

They drove on, finally reaching Stiles’ house. It still stood, though most of the windows were blown out. He called out, hoping his father would answer, but there was nothing. Stiles grabbed a picture of his mother from his bedroom, as well as a few personal effects and moved on. They encountered other survivors, none of whom had seen John Stilinski, but they assured him to keep looking. Eventually, the two boys pulled up to what was once a rich, upper class neighborhood that was particularly leveled in the bombing.

Lydia Martin, who Stiles had a crush on from second grade until his mother died in eighth, was sorting through the rubble of a house, muttering to herself.

“Come on you, bastard, where are you? I know you didn’t die on me Jackson, I know it!”

Derek could hear nothing from inside the house, but he did smell something. Hopping from the Jeep, he approached the southern side of the ruins, and pulled up what was once part of a wall. Beneath it lay Jackson Whittemore, his eyes glazed over and head resting at an unnatural angle. The collapse of the house had broken his neck and killed him.

“Lydia.” He called softly, but she was still searching that same spot of debris, muttering. Stiles came up behind her, and gently shook her shoulders. When she didn’t respond, he tried to make her look at him, but she just fought against his grip. Finally, Stiles slapped her hard across the face.

“What…?” She asked, dazed.

“Lyds.” Stiles spoke gently. “Over here.” Together, he walked her over to where Jackson rested.

“ _NO!”_ The anguished cry echoed over the neighborhood. “ _GOD NO!”_

Stiles held her close, letting Lydia sob on his shoulder. “I know, I know. It’s okay.”

“Help me- help me take care of him.” She begged. “Please, Stiles, we can’t just leave him here!”

“Yeah, you’re rights, Lyds. Derek, come on. Help me get him up out of here.”

The two boys laid Jackson out in the Jeep’s open trunk, and Lydia hopped into the back seat. After another few minutes of driving, they reached the Republic command center at Town Hall, which was mortared and bombed, but still standing. Amidst the chaos of soldiers ferrying their wounded and dead, and civilians wandering aimlessly with shell shock, Stiles spotted his father.

Sheriff John Stilinski, along with Deputy Jordan Parrish and a handful of the other members of the police force, were all in handcuffs, being led away by a group of soldiers. Stiles forced the Jeep to a quick halt, and sprinted towards the group, yelling for them to stop. Derek and Lydia followed in quick pursuit. Stiles quickly turned to the apparent leader of the squad.

“Soldier, what is your name and rank?!” He demanded.

“Captain Marshall Cartwright, 2nd Battalion New York.” Came the neutral reply.

“Release these men immediately.” Stiles levied the order coldly.

“On whose authority, kid?” The captain scoffed.

“Agent Stiles Stilinski, Republic Department of Espionage, Sierra Delta Sierra Bravo Hotel Charlie Alpha, 120-06-15-05.”

“Stiles, what the Hell?!” The Sheriff demanded from his handcuffed position.

“Check those numbers, private.” Captain Cartwright ordered softly.

“They’re real sir. Stilinski has been a spy since 2018.” The private returned.

“Be that as it may, agent, these men _are_ American authority figures, we can’t risk letting them run loose.”

“If anything happens under them, it’s on my head, alright? Just… don’t cart them off for trial like war criminals.”

The captain debated with himself for a moment before nodding stiffly. The private uncuffed the five policemen, and immediately John was grasping at his son’s shoulders.

“What in God’s name is he talking about, Stiles?! How are you a spy?!” He demanded.  
“I have been since I was fourteen, Dad. Derek brought me into the ring. We’ve been passing intelligence for years. You were just so busy worrying and trying to figure out how to keep the peace and not enforce all those savage ass laws that you never noticed.” Stiles calmly explained.

“My God…” John sighed. “How didn’t I see it?” He asked in disbelief.

“Go with them, Dad. Take Lydia, go help the town, and tell the Hales we’re gone. I need to speak with the captain.” Stiles gestured to where Cartwright clearly wanted to speak with him and Derek.

“Is he also one of us?” Cartwright asked carefully. Derek, in response, gave his registration. “I assume you’re both trained in the standard array of Republic weapons?”

“Everything from pistols to miniguns, sir.” Derek sharply replied.

“Excellent. I’d like to congratulate you men for your field promotions to the rank of Lieutenant. Follow me and we’ll get your uniforms ready.” Cartwright led the two into city hall.

The quartermaster quickly sized up the two for their uniforms, and gave them dogtags. The uniforms themselves were black, with an asymmetrical petticoat design, efficient pants (that made Derek’s ass look _fantastic_ , enough so to have Stiles adjusting his own), and a beret with the Republic emblem on the front. They were also given belts with a holster, multiple ammunition packs, a grenade, and a suicide pill in the event of capture.

“The clothing is fire-resistant to a point of 900 degrees, and can burn for five minutes before thermal shields fail, and also is resistant to small arms fire, including pistols and most single shot rifles, though I speak from experience when I say that taking a bullet to the chest will not feel very nice. You’ll probably break a rib or four, so try not to get shot anyway. If you take machine gun fire, I’m afraid you’re shit out of luck.” The quartermaster rambled as he pushed them out of his office.

Reunited with Captain Cartwright, he introduced them to a squadron. “This is Theta Squadron, better known as the Defenders of New Orleans, they held their own outnumbered four to one in the French Quarter of the city and help turn the tide on the invasion when the armistice failed. I figure you boys are used to excitement and danger, having spied since you were barely teenagers, so you’ll love these folks.” He turned to address the squad. “Now, these boys are the reason we’re here, they’ve risked everything in constant danger for three years. Without them, we might still be fending off invasion. So, you treat them with the respect they deserve, am I clear?”

There was a chorus of “Yes, sir!” that echoed from the squadron. They shipped out for the Bay that afternoon.

Neither man can really remember the entire affair, but that’s what video is for. There are moments of clarity, though, between the endless loop of gunfire and artillery shells exploding. Stiles and Derek were clearing a block in Alameda when they were confronted by a woman, clearly hurt, hobbling out of the ruins of a business.

“Please, help!” She screamed, clutching what they thought was a baby in a bundle of rags. “He’s hurt!”

One of their squad members, a sharp-witted Bostonian named Lucan ordered them to lower their weapons. As they approached the hurt woman, she reached into the swaddling and pulled out a micro machine gun, and sprayed bullets across the squad. Three men went down, and it was Derek who put the bullet in her throat that took the murderer down.

“Oh, God. I killed her. Stiles, I fucking killed that woman!” Derek was clearly devolving into hysterics, but Stiles was one step ahead.

With a brief but powerful kiss, Stiles shut him up. “You did what you had to. You saved lives. Got it? You did nothing wrong.”

Derek nodded in return.

Thankfully, there were no incidents of such caliber the rest of the battle. At one point, they were pinned down on Treasure Island, hoping to finally isolate the walled of city of San Francisco. The resulting battle on the island was, to say the least, messy. It was an hours long game of cat and mouse, the Americans dodging and weaving between buildings, unable to leave the island but unwilling to surrender. After six members of their squad were left lying dead and Stiles himself had been grazed by a bullet along his arm, the remainder of Theta Squad considered calling an airstrike, but decided against it, instead opting for more dangerous games.

By that point, as the sun dipped ever lower towards the horizon, each of them were assigned an enemy soldier, and told not to let them out of their sight until they were dead. It worked surprisingly well. The Americans had been running for hours, dancing around the island, and they were tired. The Republic troops wore them down quickly enough, forcing them into corners and edges, catching them when their footing slipped or when they breathed too loud while hiding. True, some of them were killed as well, but it was the enemy who took the brunt of casualties.

Stiles lost sight of his target, until, suddenly, a Marine who must have had almost a foot of height and a hundred pounds on Stiles was strangling him, and he was helpless, his arms pinned in place by the soldier’s feet and all he could do was hope he would finally snap his neck already.

As the black spots in his vision grew wider, a chocolate brown blur streaked across his vision, and sweet oxygen returned to his burning lungs once more. He turned to see a woman, ebony skin and black braids, bashing the marine’s head in with a pipe, grunting viciously with each swing.

“Meera!” Stiles gasped out. “Meera stop, he’s dead!”

The older woman looked up, her eyes glazed with fury, and speckles of blood across her face. Then, the anger drained from her eyes and turned to relief. “The Hell were you thinking, kid?!” She demanded, hugging him close. “You got people to think about, you think your boytoy there is gonna be okay if you go and get yourself killed?!” She proceeded to scold him until she was finally satisfied. “Don’t do that again, you little idiot.”

When they returned to the rest of the squad, Derek rushed over, aghast at the finger-shaped bruises and bloody scleras that marked Stiles.

“It looks worse than it feels.” He croaked out, the lie painfully obvious to Derek’s werewolf hearing.

“I know when you’re lying.” Derek whispered, pulling him in close.

“I know.” Came the reply.

Just then, Captain Cartwright came back from a communications array set up on the south side of the island. “Since none of us are in pressing need of medical attention, though Stilinski here looks like shit, we’ve been ordered to hunker down for the night, wait for the completion of Operation Prometheus and we’ll be airlifted to meet the troops in the city tomorrow morning.”

“The fuck is Operation Prometheus, Cap?” Lucan asked.

“No idea, but we’re to wait here until whatever they do brings down that wall they got cutting off the city.”

The wall that severed San Francisco from the rest of the nation came up in a matter of days, two hundred feet high, and wrapping around the peninsula up to almost half of the city. The lower half needed port access, so it was left unblocked, but the Golden Gate and Bay Bridges were bombed out and every single non-essential personnel and civilian was evacuated from the United States capital city after the Bay came under direct assault two days prior. Whatever Operation Prometheus was, it would bring down the wall.

At 0200 hours on May 27, 2021, Operation Prometheus was a go. Everyone was awake, waiting for the action, and boy did it not disappoint. Standing on the beach, they watched as several squads of Aethersprites began a bombing run over San Fran. Just as they went over the wall, their bomb bays opened, only, instead of bombs falling, fire came from the arrowhead craft.

In an instant, the entire length of the wall was ablaze, and the aircraft kept running, continually dropping napalm over the doomed city. When one group ran out of their payload, another rose up, and picked up. Following behind were conventional B-29 bombers, dropping explosives into the burning fray below. In less than five minutes, all of San Francisco was ablaze, skyscrapers collapsing into the fiery Hell below them. The Transamerica Pyramid collapsed in on itself, leaving a sloped base without a tip, and the Port of San Francisco exploded, having been filled with bombs and bullets and gunpowder. The whole of the city burned alive in a matter of minutes.

“My God… what did we do…?” Derek asked in horror.

“We commit an act of pure evil.” Stiles returned, silent tears slipping from his eyes as he leaned against the werewolf.

In the morning, the city was mostly extinguished, with nothing left to burn, the napalm died out. A choking cloud of smoke rose from the ruined peninsula, which was where Theta Squadron was flying to in a V-22 Osprey. They were to search for survivors, though everyone knew there were none to be found. For a few hours, they searched through rubble, posed for interviews and began cleaning up, but it was solemn and lonely. The ruins of the wall were visible from the collapsed Transamerica Pyramid. At San Francisco city Hall, the acting Capitol Building of the US, the troops found the remains of Congress and the rest of the federal government. Hundreds of charred bodies, burnt beyond recognition in the room they’d been huddled into that acted as the chamber for both houses.

Further into the ruins, there was a startling discovery. More bodies, dozens, piled atop each other, their arms reaching towards a large metal door that was marred with claw marks.

“Shit.” Meera sighed, before speaking into her comm. “Command, this is Commander Lewis, we’ve found it. What are your orders?”

“What did we find?” Derek demanded.

Command radioed back. 'Are you sure, Lewis? There’s a chance it’s just another secure area.’

“Negative, Command. There’s about two dozen crispy congressmen trying to get at this door. They knew the only shot they had at survival was past it.” Meera replied.

‘Duly noted, Lewis. You are to proceed carefully. There’s no telling what’s on the other side. If he is in there, he won’t go without a fight.’

“Affirmative, we’ll be getting our guest.” Meera addressed Command a last time before turning to Derek and Stiles. “If this is what we believe it is, Cheney, Gingrich and Cruz are in that bunker.”

“Holy Shit! And we’re supposed to capture them? Maybe tell us we’re hunting for the most wanted men in the country next time, huh, Cap?!” Stiles crowed over to wherever Cartwright was.

“Dennis, plant those charges. Lucan, Hale, clear the bodies, Stilinski, I want you on point with me.” Meera ordered.

A few moments later, C4 was planted on the bunker, and the remains of the congressmen were well outside of the blast range. Everyone shielded themselves behind a still standing wall, and Meera blew the charges. The explosion rocked the building and left Derek’s werewolf ears near bleeding.

“You okay, Hale?” One of their squad mates asked.

“Fine.” Derek grunted out. “Just hit my head in the blast.” The glare he gave cut off any questions before their arrival.

The door was hanging off of its hinges, and allowed them to peer inside the bunker. Lights flickered, and muffled voices carried up from the underground structure.

Silently, with Stiles by her side, Meera took point, turning on the flashlight on her weapon and having her men and women follow her into the fray.

In the bunker, it was over in minutes. The three men had no guards and no weapons. They were helpless but to surrender.

Derek and Stiles were plastered to each other in a passionate kiss as the stark reality of the situation hit them. The war was over. Five years of conflict and tension, finally ended. The sensation was dizzying.

Meera called over to the two young men. “Stilinski, wanna send the good news?” She grinned wildly.

Stiles’ face blanked in shock. “M- Me? You’re sure?”

“I think we all agree you can have the honor. Here’s a direct line to the command in Alameda.” Captain Cartwright appeared, handing Stiles a small Blackberry. “Yep, just press that button there.”

‘ _This is Command._ ’ Came the almost instant answer.

“Command, this is Lieutenant Stiles Stilinski. We have captured the targets.” Stiles grinned into the phone, still dealing with an overjoyed Derek on him.

There was a fair bit of commotion on the other end of the line, before a female voice spoke to Stiles. ’ _Lieutenant, please put this phone on speaker._ ’ The woman said, and he complied.

 _'This is President Clinton, I want to congratulate you on your successful capture of Cheney and his henchmen. You are all superb examples of the might of our nation, and I thank you for your service. I look forward to meeting you all in person. Again, thank you._ ’ Hillary Clinton finished.

“Looks like we’re meeting the President.” Derek grinned to Stiles before kissing him again.

The next day, the Republic government appeared at the bombed out ruins of the city, solemn and silent as they walked across collapsed buildings and charred bodies. After they completed their inspection of the city with tears in their eyes, they reboarded the _USS John F Kennedy_ , the aircraft carrier that had sailed into the Bay earlier that morning. Theta Squad was also aboard, and lounged around the flight deck, as did the crew. The war was over, there were no fights to be had, battles to be won, nothing. Just some old fashioned R and R.

As the celebration continued, an enormous ship drifted into the Bay, bearing the name _USS America_. It flew the stars and stripes, and there were soldiers on its deck. In an instant, the mood broke. Those on the _JFK’s_ flight deck had weapons ready in an instant. However, the _America_ dropped anchor, and began to lower their American flag. The Republic borromean rings rose up the flagpole, and a man in white stepped onto his own flight deck. The two ships were a matter of dozens of feet apart, and recognition flashed in Hillary Clinton’s eyes.

“Hello, Admiral Swift!” She called.

“Madame President!” The distant reply. “Permission to come aboard?!”

“Permission granted!”

A few moments later, Admiral Scott Swift, Commander of the US Pacific Fleet, was standing on the _JFK_ along with his aides. A table and chairs was brought out, and, on one side, sat Hillary Clinton, Bernie Sanders, Kirsten Gillibrand, Joshua Mako and Ruth Bader Ginsburg. On the other, Admiral Swift and four men of his own. Stiles, Derek, the rest of Theta Squad and the crew of the JFK stood behind their leaders. It was a televised affair.

“Well, Madame President, I am the highest ranking member of what remains of the United States Military. It is with this authority that I offer you first, this. The formal and unconditional surrender of the United States Armed Forces. Please sign here.”

Hillary perused the document, and, apparently satisfied, signed it, before passing it to her contemporaries. Then, she passed it back to Admiral Swift, who signed it with a grin, and stood, offering his hand to the President, who took it gracefully.

Joyous, she turned to the soldiers behind her. “This war is officially over!” She cried.

The ranks of men and women, previously stoic and silent, broke into cheers. Derek and Stiles were wrapped around each other, tongues having abdicated their own mouths in favor of their counterpart’s. Across the gulf between the ships, the American troops broke into cheers of their own. Across the country, there was celebration. In New York, crowds stormed the streets in celebration, dancing outside of Federal Hall and in Times Square.

Back in San Francisco, Admiral Swift handed President Clinton a copy of the Republic Constitution, signed and ratified by the legislatures of Hawaii, Alaska, Guam and the Northern Marianas Islands, signifying the intent for statehood.

“Ma'am, these ratifications aren’t the only ones. The remaining inhabited Pacific territories have also submitted a request for territory status.” Swift offered her more paperwork.

Bernie Sanders chuckled from his seat. “I thought she was supposed to be the one giving you all the paperwork, Scott.”

“Sorry, Mr. Vice President, it’s a new country, the old ways are dead.” Admiral Swift grinned back.

“That they are, Admiral.” Kirsten Gillibrand agreed.

“I’ll be sure to bring these back to New York. Now, I have something else to do. Carter, bring out the medals.” Clinton called to an aide.

A long wooden box was brought out and set on the table, where eight Medals of Honor sat on a velveteen cushion.

“Theta Squadron, Second Battalion, New York, please step forward.” The eight surviving members, including Derek and Stiles, stepped forward.

“Captain Adam Cartwright. For exceptional command, collectedness and exemplary performance in battle, as well as taking a vital step to end the war, you are hereby awarded the Republic Medal of Honor. Your country thanks you for your service.” She spoke. Down the list she went, citing exceptional action by each member. Finally, she was down Stiles and Derek.

“Lieutenant Stiles Stilinski. For willingness to sacrifice, living in constant danger for three years while providing vital intelligence to the war effort, and for taking a vital step to end the war, you are hereby awarded the Republic Medal of Honor. Your country thanks you for your service” Hillary smiled at him, gave Derek the same speech.

“Thank you all, for your service. You are the greatest our nation has to offer.”

Cartwright then spoke in his best Drill Sargent voice. “Squadron, _SALUTE!”_

And salute they did.

**+**

**Five Years Later**

“Derek! I don’t care if the full moon was last night you have a final in an hour, get your ass _up!”_

The sleeping pile of exhausted werewolf better known as Derek Hale let out a growl and a grumble.

“Don’t give me that horseshit, get the fuck up. It’s your last final, and you are going to graduate next week, dammit!”

Finally, Derek hauled himself out of their bed (God, how good it felt to say that), and trudged to the bathroom to relieve himself and shower while Stiles made breakfast. A few moments later, dressed and still damp from bathing, he ambled into the kitchen/dining room of their apartment.

Seeing a full stack of pancakes resting on his plate, with bacon and a bagel on the side, Derek smiles gratefully and comes up behind Stiles, kissing him on the cheek. “Thank you for making breakfast.”

“You can pay me back by making dinner.” He kisses him back, on the lips.

Derek’s warm smile turns predatory. “I could also pay you back by blowing you.” He sinks his hands down towards Stiles’ pants.

“As lovely as that sounds, you have a final, and I want your spaghetti for dinner.” Stiles taunts, twisting free of his wolf’s grip.

Derek groans.

“Oh, quit whining. It’s English 403, I had to take a biotechnology final, and after they raided the Pentagon archives, the sciences got a lot more complex, remember?”

It was true. Many of the promising technologies that dazzled the public for a few weeks and then slunk into obscurity labeled as 'needing work’ were, in actuality, collected by the United States government to be released when they felt was apropos. There was technology decades ahead of anything the public could imagine in the secret vaults below the former military command. And, when they were finally pried open, the world was stunned.

Countless fields of science from astronomy to biotechnology exploded years ahead. Organ printing, nuclear fusion, single stage reusable spaceships, so much new technology. And, Stiles’ personal favorite, _holograms!!!!_

“You nailed those finals, I don’t know if I’ll nail mine.” Derek interjected.

Stiles silenced him with a kiss. “You’ll do fantastic. Now, get your ass to campus. I’m meeting Lydia, Aiden, Isaac and Scott for lunch on Fifth Ave and I won’t be late. You know how she gets.”

“Wrathful? Yeah, I do. The girl goes to the best school in the country, Columbia University, and she’s acting like this is BHHS.”

“Speaking of, how’s Cora liking senior year?”

“Well, now that they’ve got most of the town rebuilt, good. She’s even looking at UCSF for college.” Derek said.

“Really? They got the school rebuilt already?”

Derek nodded an affirmative, kissed Stiles and left, but not without a final good luck and a smack on the ass.

As the Republic blossomed in the world, so did Derek and Stiles. Life in New York was far from perfect, and both the nation and the two lovers had a lot of work ahead. Let the rebuilding carry on.


	2. Author's Note, Post-Election

I've been debating writing this for a long time, but the words just haven't found me. As I write this, it's been a little less than nine months since Donald Trump was sworn in. I'll start with a story.

On election night, I proudly went and cast my ballot for Hillary Clinton. It wasn't much of a point, I live in a state that hasn't gone Republican since Reagan. At first, I eagerly watched the returns, exchanged texts with friends. They were good, really good! Hillary was up in all sorts of places: Georgia, Arizona, even Texas for a few hours. It looked like a wave year. 

It all turned. Around 10:30, I went to bed, thinking the results would flip in the meantime, and I would wake in the morning to find a comfortable victory for America's first female President. It didn't flip. At 3:30 in the morning, I woke up, checked CNN, and promptly ran to the bathroom. I barely made it before I vomited. I went downstairs to my living room, and sat on the couch for three hours, staring at the wall. 

I spent the next day in shock. The mood in my classes was like someone died. I actually saw someone crying in my government class. I didn't cry until March, when I heard 'Fight Song' for the first time since election night. I never watched Hillary's concession, nor Trump's victory. Since then, I've remained resolute. It's been tiring, but I won't stop fighting against that monster and all his ilk.

The subject of this story is a literal civil war, an act of insurrection spearheaded by fictionalized versions of real people. There are some adjustments I'd like to make, a retcon, for want of a better word. 

Firstly: Bernie Sanders can actually fuck off to Hell and never come back. He and his followers have spent the last year sandbagging Hillary and her supporters, when they couldn't even muster enough support to win a primary against a supposedly unpopular candidate. I urge you, dearest readers, to look into Senator Sanders' history, it is neither elegant nor pretty. His three decades in Congress have shown no major accomplishments, and his life prior to Congress is, shall we say, checkered. 

Secondly: At the time I wrote this, I clearly underestimated the evil in the hearts of Mitch McConnell and Paul Ryan. I should have made them the primary villains, not Dick Cheney and Ted Cruz. 

Lastly: I realize now that California was an inconvenient place to choose as the new capital of the United States after D.C. fell. I'd adjust this to Oklahoma City, given the incredible margins by which Trump won Oklahoma in general. 

To close, I urge you to do several things: 

1: Register as a Democrat to ensure you can vote in your town/state's primaries or caucuses. If you cannot choose your candidate, you cannot complain about your candidate. 

2: Donate to LOCAL Democratic institutions. Your county probably has a local party website or office. Donate money, or even better, time. Effect change in your community, first at the local level, and grow. Build the grassroots so that we can organize to take both houses of Congress in 2018. As we draw closer to the Midterms, start donating to the Democratic National Committee then.

3: Contact local your representatives. Urge your legislators in the state to introduce the National Popular Vote Compact, an interstate compact which takes effect when 270 electoral votes are under its reach, which says that, regardless of the state's individual outcomes in the presidential election, their electors will vote for the winner of the popular vote, a form of insurance that we can never have a repeat of 2016's outrageous popular/electoral vote disparity.

4: Contact your national representatives, remind them that they have a duty to their constituents before their party, make sure they understand that their support of bills that aren't good for the people will cost them in the Midterms, because, in the end, that's all most of them care about. Make sure they know, if they vote against the interests of their constituents, you will organize against them and ensure they do not see another term in office. 

5: Protest. Holy shit, I can't overstate this. Protest. Organize. Make your voice heard, make sure that we are known and that we will resist the damage this government inflicts upon us. Punch a Nazi. 

6: Civil violence isn't acceptable (Nazis, white nationalists, fascists, and Klansmen excepted. Fuck those guys.) I know, considering I wrote a story about rising in rebellion against exactly this kind of government, that's funny, but all it does is kill us, in the end. Civil violence orphans children, ruins the cities we live in, leaves wounds that take generations to heal. We're better than this. Let us solve our discourse at the ballot box, not the battlefield. 

7: If Robert Mueller's investigation turns up with impeachable material, contact your legislators and make sure they know, you want his ass impeached. Impeachment is less about the law and more about politics. If they think tying themselves to Trump will cost them, they'll vote to remove him. There must be broad-based support for Trump's removal in order for it to happen. When the time comes, make sure they know, we want his ass gone. 

I urge all of you, stay strong. We're in for a long, painful road to 2020. Even then, it's no guarantee. We must stay vigilant, not become lax in our values and belief in the strength of our democracy. Keep watch, our way of government is fragile and we must all try to protect it. If we don't, we wind up in the mess we're in now. I leave you, my dear readers, with the words of Keith Olbermann (He's a genius, watch his GQ video series, The Resistance):

Resist. Remove. Peace.

**Author's Note:**

> Reviews feed my soul, and Lord knows that thing needs feeding. Hope you enjoyed!


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